


avec la fin de mon souffle

by Silver_Queen



Category: Pundit RPF, Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Community: fakenews_fanfic, Foreign Correspondents, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Porn, Slash, Stolen Moments, journalists in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Queen/pseuds/Silver_Queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson and Ayman have one day together before they are separated again. This is how they spend it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	avec la fin de mon souffle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Christina, who needed a pick-me-up. ♥

_...qui est le commencement du vôtre._

Anderson loves Ayman after they've been apart for too long. Possessive and rough, pinning Anderson against the wall, mouth hot against his neck, fervently mapping Anderson's skin, reclaiming each expanse with a deliberate mark.

He can still feel the slight burn left by Ayman's stubble last night. He can't stop smiling at the sensation.

Anderson also loves what comes after the initial frenzy: hours of heat and desire and friction, mouths roaming, gasping each other's names. Fingers laced, cocks thrusting together, skin sliding against sweat-slicked skin. The crashing wave, the spent collapse, the languid cooling of exhausted bodies. The tide soon rising again, triggered by the brush of Ayman's hip shifting under his, the deliberate drag of his short nails across Anderson's bare shoulder, the sheer _intent_ in his eyes that leaves Anderson quivering from the craving to both submit and to _take_.

They spent most of today in bed, lacking the willpower required to detach themselves from one another. Anderson made Ayman turn his name into a curse two times, an accomplishment of which Anderson is very proud. ("Ander _fuck_ " is his favorite.)

But this... this is what Anderson loves most. The quiet that comes after all that pent-up need has been released; after Ayman has coaxed out every sigh and moan of Anderson's that he's missed hearing; after Anderson has tasted Ayman's skin enough to be absolutely sure he won't forget it when Ayman leaves tomorrow.

Finally satisfied, they curl up together, breath mingling, noses nearly touching, fingers drawing unconscious patterns on each other's bodies. Sometimes they sleep, exhausted and happy. Most of the time they talk. No sentimental love words (never that; Anderson is a sap, but clichés and statements of the obvious aren't Ayman's style), but important things. Things that matter.

They have whole debates like this, wrapped in each other, hands exploring with no intent beyond simply to touch, to feel, to reassure. And the love is there, underlying everything else, so obvious that Anderson doesn't need a grand declaration and a swelling soundtrack. (Though he does sometimes get Arabic poetry, it's not often. Ayman hates to see him cry.)

Tonight, they're trading stories, getting caught up from the past few weeks of separation. They lie on their sides, legs tangled, Ayman massaging Anderson's hip with one hand. Anderson's hand has wandered to Ayman's cock, which hardened beneath his touch - surprising, considering the workout Ayman has gotten today, but then Anderson has always known Ayman to have tremendous stamina, even on their first sleepless, stress-filled nights in Cairo.

Anderson strokes languidly, his grip loose, barely enough to register as more than a vague sense of enjoyment at the back of Ayman's mind as he continues to recount a funny story of Al Jazeera English office politics.

Anderson likes this best, likes being in control and not taking advantage of it. Having the power to make Ayman writhe and beg and moan, but letting it slip right through his fingers, because it's not about making him come (not anymore, anyway). It's just about making him happy.

Sometimes it ends anti-climactically; Ayman falls asleep or goes soft, or Anderson gets too caught up in a serious debate to keep touching Ayman's cock. And sometimes the pleasure builds without Ayman's even realizing until it creeps up and overwhelms his consciousness, causing him to break off abruptly and clutch Anderson to him.

This time Ayman will come. Anderson can tell by the way his eyes are getting hazy and his fingers starting to grip Anderson's chest.

Anderson presses his forehead to Ayman's in silent acknowledgment, and Ayman lets his words trail off and his eyes slip shut to focus on the sensation.

"Getting good?" Anderson asks, not because he needs confirmation, but because Ayman's voice in this state is easily the most gratifying thing he's ever heard in his life.

"Yeah," more of a breath than a vocalization.

Anderson shifts until he's hovering over Ayman, a better angle for both of them, but maintains his lazy, even pace; there's no need to rush when it's not about the endgame but the feeling itself.

And Anderson knows this feeling: that steady, inchoate pleasure, without direction or purpose, seeming to go on forever without any need for release, until all of a sudden everything is heat, all heat and delicious friction, and climax comes unexpectedly, intense and overpowering.

But Ayman hasn't reached that stage yet. "Just... keep--" he manages.

"I know, baby." Ayman briefly opens his eyes at that, a half-smile on his lips. The term of endearment embarrasses him, so Anderson doesn't use it except in moments like this, when Ayman's inhibitions are shot and everything is already too close and much too honest for embarrassment to have any effect.

With his free hand he traces lingering lines on Ayman's skin, not to spur on his arousal, but simply because he knows Ayman likes to be caressed. He doesn't want to push Ayman closer to the edge; the longer it takes him to get there himself, the stronger his orgasm will be.

"God."

"I know," Anderson repeats, leaning down to press dry lips to the pulse point behind Ayman's jaw. "Take your time."

Ayman hums deep in his chest, lips parted, cocking his head to allow Anderson better access.

Anderson opens his mouth and sucks lightly on the same spot, and Ayman sighs, curling his fingers around Anderson's neck.

Anderson observes the response with fascination approaching wonder. _I caused that_ , he thinks. He wonders if he will ever stop thinking that.

He drags his hand across Ayman's lower abdomen, and can almost feel the heat pooling there.

Suddenly Ayman moans, muscles tensing. By the time he gasps an incoherent request ("I... _Andy_ , I'm--"), Anderson is already tightening his grip and increasing the pace. For a few seconds Ayman can only breathe erratically, toes curling, lost in the accelerating pleasure.

His orgasm hits him without warning. He lets out an uncharacteristically inelegant cry, hips snapping violently. Anderson strokes him firmly through it, thumbing one of his nipples with the other hand.

This is it, he thinks. This is the moment he will relive every night until Ayman comes back to him again.

When it's over, Anderson moves to cradle him, despite his larger size, dropping chaste kisses across his chest, listening to his breathing slow.

Anderson marvels at how beautiful Ayman looks like this, and how _young_. His intellect often makes Anderson feel like the younger partner, but now, with the worry lines on his face smoothed out and a gratified smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he reminds Anderson how young he really is. It makes Anderson feel somehow protective of him.

Once Ayman has regained control of his limbs, he slides his fingers through Anderson's hair and pulls him up into a kiss, soft and tiredly sloppy, but thorough. Anderson sighs contentedly against Ayman's lips, and Ayman squeezes Anderson's hip in response.

When they break apart, Anderson settles his weight against Ayman, placing his head in the crook of Ayman's neck and catching Ayman's hand in his own. He is half-hard against Ayman's thigh now, but it doesn't matter. There are no scores to keep here.

(And maybe that's what keeps them coming back: their lives are full of metaphorical scoreboards: ratings, elections, battles that always end with clear losers and only sometimes with winners. But between them, power dynamics are ephemeral, each relinquishing the upper hand when he's done with it.

Sometimes Anderson thinks their relationship is a model of their lives; the thrill, the risk, the intensity, but without the specter of failure that usually haunts them both, because they couldn't disappoint each other if they tried.

Anderson is okay with that.)

**Author's Note:**

> The French title (rather pretentious for a porn fic, I know) is a quote taken from André Breton's _Nadja_. The full quote is "Avec la fin de mon souffle, qui est le commencement du vôtre," which translates as "With the end of my breath, which is the beginning of yours."


End file.
